


Made Wise: A Foolish Sequel

by Polly_Lynn



Series: The Fool Series [2]
Category: Castle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 13:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3327779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everyday, it's just annoyance as usual. He shows up. He brings her coffee more often than not. He says stupid, off-the-wall things she should have thought of. Things she doesn't want to hear a lot of the time, because they lay too much in her bare, and they're more useful than she'd like. He's underfoot and wildly inappropriate and the back-and-forth between them is the bullpen's favorite entertainment. But there's this other thing going on all the while that neither one of them says anything about. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A two-shot sequel to "Foolish." That's set during "A Chill Goes Through Her Veins" (1 x 05). This is a bit later, probably around the time of "Home is Where the Heart Stops" (1 x 07). This is also the responsibility of Cora Clavia and her Evil Sugar Cubes of Danger.

 

* * *

_We are made wise not by the recollection of our past,_

_but by the responsibility for our future._

**George Bernard Shaw**

* * *

It's nothing at first. An odd, out of place thing she doesn't think much of, except it's in her desk. It's right there with the big bag of back-up Skittles, and she has no idea where it could have come from.

The drugstore maybe? It's her first thought as she turns it over and over in her fingers. That maybe it was an ad or something tucked in with the receipt, and she didn't notice when she dumped the whole thing into the drawer.

That doesn't feel right, though. Literally. The page is thick and glossy. Expensive, and there's a subtle wave to the left margin and another along the top, like it was torn from something else by hand. The image itself is high end, too. There's soft, flattering light falling on a white table cloth and sun toasting floorboards that gleam softly. There's drapery streaming inward on a breeze she can almost feel, and flowers that are the only real pop of color. Tiger-lily and heather, the velvet dark of chocolate cosmos, and succulent, green stems bound by a wide silk ribbon. A bridal bouquet.

She has no idea, and she doesn't think much of it. She swipes it aside and reaches for the candy. The thickness of the paper wedges it upright in the seam of the drawer, flowers and soft light facing out. She leaves it there. A bright, pretty few square inches, wherever it came from. It's enough to make her smile sometimes when she goes digging for paperclips or if it's a one-Skittle-at-a-time kind of day.

She mostly forgets about it until the next one shows up a few days later. It slips from between file folders and sails to the floor. She and Ryan almost crack skulls going for it at the same time, but it's her palm that slaps over it first, and thank God.

It's on the same kind of good, heavy paper with the same not-quite-straight sides that make her think of a firm, deliberate palm and careful fingers tearing along a crease. It's brighter, this one. An outdoor shot of two kids making their way between white chairs in neat rows on an artfully wild-looking lawn.

The boy is serious. Dark-haired and scowling right at the camera from above a huge, lopsided bow tie. The girl has her arm hooked through his, tilting his satin pillow dangerously as her fist comes up out of the basket hooked over her wrist. She leads him right through a shower of white petals, laughing and swishing her hips to make the wide skirt of her spring green dress flare out.

"Gross?" Ryan's voice startles her from reverie. He looks concerned, and she's sure at first that he's seen. That somehow he already knows what she's only just realizing, but his attention is on her. "The thing. Is it gross? You're all . . ." He makes an awkward gesture way too close to his chest for either of them to like it. "Pink!" He clears his throat and tries to peel his pitch off the ceiling. "Crime scene photo?"

"No!" She feels heat creeping up her arm. Pink. She feels it bloom across her collarbones and leap on to her cheeks. She nearly pitches forward, dizzy with the dots connecting in her head all of a sudden. Ryan's hand shoots out toward her shoulder, but she waves him off. She grabs the desk to pull herself to a standing position. She tries to look steady on her feet.

"Nothing," she says. She crushes the not-quite square in her hand. The sharp corners of good paper bite into her palm. "Junk. Just . . . junk mixed in."

Ryan gives her an odd look, but he shrugs and turns away, taking the files with him.

She drops into her desk chair, the paper still clutched in a palm growing damper by the second. She hooks the trash can closer with her foot. Her fingers hover and open, but she's snatching at it before gets anywhere near the wide mouth. She catches it. She smooths it out along her thigh, sorry for the creases warping the boy's wide cuffs and the joyful swing of the girl's basket. She stares down at it. Sunlight and spring air making white petals dance.

_I'm old fashioned about you._

She yanks open the top drawer—the one with the back-up bag of Skittles. She shoves the creased, heavy paper inside.

 

* * *

 

She doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything.

It's driving her more than a little mad. All of it. Him on her doorstep in the middle of the night and the brand of his kiss on her palm. A handful of minutes she's more than half convinced herself were a dream, because he doesn't say anything, either. He hasn't said a word.

Everyday, it's just annoyance as usual. He shows up. He brings her coffee, more often than not. He says stupid, off-the-wall things she should have thought of. Things she doesn't want to hear a lot of the time, because they lay too much in her bare, and they're more useful than she'd like. He's underfoot and wildly inappropriate and the back-and-forth between them is the bullpen's favorite entertainment.

But there's this other thing going on all the while that neither one of them says anything about.

The pictures keep coming. Full pages and tiny corners hardly bigger than her palm. Centerfolds and thin strips torn all the way down a long margin. She keeps finding them, and every time there's the rush of blood to her cheeks and the staccato thump of her pulse. She tells herself it's because she's pissed about it. She's furious, because what if someone else sees?

She's not sure how someone else hasn't yet. They're everywhere. On the underside of her tape dispenser. Peeking out from beneath her keyboard and her desk phone and her candy dish. Rolled up, tight and careful with a little strip of ribbon, in the trunk of one elephant.

One at a time, they don't mean much. One at a time, they're more annoyance as usual. Altogether, they're something else entirely. Altogether—in the top drawer where they live with her back-up bag of Skittles—they're _serious_.

Hilltop venues and sweeping halls with parquet dance floors. Trellises and illustrated instructions for DIY aisle bows. Playlists. Terrible nobody-listens-to-the-words first dance songs printed from a website, and something different that makes her breath catch. Something handwritten that feels way too much like a junior high mix-tape. A really good mix-tape, because he pays attention.

But she tucks them away one by one. She doesn't say anything and he doesn't say anything. One by one, she tells herself they're just another way to get under her skin.

But then there's the dress. There's no real altogether until the dress.

That shows up in her pocket, solemn and set apart from the playfulness of the others. It's tucked into an envelope with a sweeping KB across the front, like it's too intimate to leave lying around and her initials mean he wants there to be no mistake about who it's for. It's an echo of his words that night.

I'm serious about you.

She hides with it, her back pressed against the bathroom stall and her hands shaking as her nails scrabble to pry up the heavy flap. She sags against the wall, staring and grateful she had the good sense to hide.

It's breathtaking and unlike anything she's ever seen. It's her in ways she's never even thought about.

It's serious.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She wasn't going to tell Castle. Of course she wasn't going to tell him, because the last thing she needs, today of all days, is to be trapped with him in a confined space with him and his thoughts on cummerbunds or centerpieces or whatever. She's been avoiding him all day, and he knows. She knows he knows. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A three-shot sequel to "Foolish." That's set during "A Chill Goes Through Her Veins" (1 x 05). This is a bit later, probably around the time of "Home is Where the Heart Stops" (1 x 07). It was supposed to be a two-shot, but the third chapter got long. Posting simultaneously.  
> Thanks to Cora Clavia for looking at this and trying to help me fix it. Brokenness remains mine.

 

 

 

We are made wise not by the recollection of our past,  
but by the responsibility for our future.  
— George Bernard Shaw

* * *

 

"A _stakeout."_ Castle's eyes light up, and Kate wonders how big a favor she'd owe Lanie if she asked for help ditching Esposito's body.

She wasn't going to tell Castle. Of _course_ she wasn't going to tell him, because the last thing she needs, today of all days, is to be trapped with him in a confined space with him and his thoughts on cummerbunds or centerpieces or whatever. She's been avoiding him all day, and he knows. She _knows_ he knows.

He's caught her staring at nothing. He's caught her with both palms pressed tight to the pocket of her blazer. He's caught her going pink all over, and he knows she's avoiding him. He knows she's seen the dress, and he's . . . letting her.

He _was_ letting her until now. Now, he half sits on the corner of her desk and leans closer than she'd like under the circumstances. Closer than she's equipped to handle at the moment, though there's not a thing about it that hasn't somehow gotten to be everyday for them.

She's inclined to snap. She slams the deep desk drawer where she keeps her bag, ready for battle, but there's something still and considering when she looks up at him. Something that makes her blink and hold her tongue.

"It's ok if I tag along?" He pitches his voice low, and it comes together. The way he's waited until Esposito and Ryan are caught up in whatever it is they're bickering about. The way his body blocks hers from view and he carves out this moment for them and no one else. He's being careful with her. Letting her avoid him if she needs to, and _that's_ worse than anything.

"Ok?" She picks out a syllable to repeat. She looks around like it's a trick. He doesn't exactly ask permission to drive her crazy. "The stakeout?"

He nods. He keeps a straight face, but only just barely. He's half laughing at her, half buzzing with that goofy, middle-of-the-night electricity, like he's done not saying a word and the smartest thing she can say is _no._

"Fine."

She shoots to her feet and turns her back on him. She's at the elevator in two strides, but somehow he keeps up. He's on her heels one second, in front of her the next. He's holding out his arm and ushering her inside, grinning like a fool.

"Stakeout." He stabs the ground floor button and she wonders what the hell she's doing. "Sweet."

She wonders if Lanie might consider a two-body special.

* * *

 

It's a complete bust in every possible way. The street is so quiet it hardly feels like New York. The building they're interested in is downright sleepy, and everything between them is weird. It's not everyday. It's not middle-of-the-night. It's just fucking confusing.

It's disappointing.

She wasn't expecting this version of him. After everything—the hallway and the silence and the dress—she wasn't expecting this careful version of him playing at their everyday game. He's off it anyway, like he can't quite remember how this part goes.

It feels far away now. To her, too, and she doesn't know how that works. It's hardly been any time at all since she _hated_ him and he lived to make her miserable, just to show he could. Hardly any time at all, and still the constant push and pull feels strange.

It's annoying in a way it hasn't been in weeks. That's annoying, too. The contrast between how easy things have become and _this_. How quickly it's gone from one thing to the other, and she hates this feeling, like she's balanced on her toes when he looks at her like he's long since fallen. Like he's serious about catching her.

It's a ridiculous notion. It's _insane._ She she should be _glad_ for this version of things. That tagging along wasn't some scheme to have this bizarre conversation all over again.

She should be glad, but she's not. She's annoyed, but she doesn't say so. She doesn't say much of anything. It makes him try harder. Too hard.

He fidgets in his seat. He bangs his knee on the glove box and tries for the fiftieth time to see if he can slide it back any farther. He can't, but she bites back the urge to point it out for the fifty-first time. He turns to peer out at the sidewalk, but the two of them are the only disaster waiting to happen on this particular city block.

"Is it always like this?"

"Like what?" She lifts the binoculars to her eyes, just for something to do. There's nothing to see. There's nothing happening at all. She's known for a while this is a bust. She's known for a while that she should call this.

"Boring." He breathes frost onto the window. He plants the side of his fist against the glass and dots his pinky above the new, creased-looking void, four times in an arc above it before finishing with an emphatic press of his thumb. "Baby footprint!" He indicates his handiwork with a flourish.

She doesn't answer. She looks swiftly away, because it's . . . it looks _exactly_ like a baby footprint, and he's getting his grubby hands all over everything, and it's cute. It's something that should have her snapping at him, then smiling out the window, hardly hiding it. Something that would have had her rolling her eyes just yesterday at how _impossible_ he is.

But this isn't yesterday, and he's off his game. They're both off, and every offhand comment takes on this _weight_ with everything they're not saying. With that stupid envelope burning a hole in her pocket.

Silence falls again. He can't seem to stand it. He prods. He asks again. "Is it? This boring, I mean. All the time?"

"You don't have to be here, you know." She flips open the locks and makes a sharp gesture to the passenger door.

"I know," he says quickly. He backs down immediately. It's been that way all night, too. He's meek and careful. _Strange,_ and not in a middle-of-the-night kind of way. "I mean. Sorry. I mean . . . no, it's good. This is good." He looks at her, sidelong and too careful. "It's . . . I'll be quiet now."

He is. He digs out his notebook, and he's quiet. It's busy work at first. Scribbling to keep up appearances, but she sees how the details catch him. She steals glances, then watches openly as his eyes dart from the darkened street up to the lightless windows and the hulking shape of curb trash in the distance. She sees it take hold. That absolute focus.

"You'll use it?" The sound of her own voice surprises her, curious and open, with something shy in it anyway.

She doesn't ask about his side of things. How he works. _Ever._ She wants to know too badly, and it's hard enough when he offers. She thinks about perching next to him on the corner of his desk and her own photo winking out of sight on the story board. It's hard enough when she catches a glimpse, and that starry-eyed feeling rises up in her. But something makes her ask now.

"I mean . . . this a bust. Need to give it half an hour more or so, but . . . " She stares out at the empty street. Down at the binoculars resting on her thigh. It's an olive branch as much as anything. "It _is_ boring."

"Boring." He tips his head, considering. "But real." His gaze revisits the pavement and the crumbling brick. All the details he's just been gathering. "Besides. They can make out if it goes on too long." He says it absently, his mind still on the page as he clicks his pen shut.

" _They?"_

The ice in her tone has his head snapping up. He looks at her, bewildered.

"They." He licks his lips, the idea of trouble just dawning. "Nikki." He skips quickly past the name—they've hardly even _begun_ to fight about the name. "And her . . . guy."

"Guy."

"Guy." He works his jaw and meets her eye, standing firm on the label. "He rides along with her, and . . ." He trails off, like he's just realizing how different this all sounds outside his head.

She fixes him with a glare. ". . . and they make out. While she's working."

"They might," he shoots back. "Yeah. I think when they've been sitting for _hours_ watching absolutely nothing? I think the subject of making out might come . . ."

She cuts him off. She kisses him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Last chapter going up now, too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He swipes at the corner of his own mouth and holds the smudge of color up to the light. Lipstick. From her lips. Because she kissed him. And he kissed her, and now they're not kissing, and that makes the least sense of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A three-shot sequel to "Foolish." That's set during "A Chill Goes Through Her Veins" (1 x 05). This is a bit later, probably around the time of "Home is Where the Heart Stops" (1 x 07).
> 
> Last chapter.

 

 

_We are made wise not by the recollection of our past,_

_but by the responsibility for our future._

— George Bernard Shaw

 

It happens all at once. Almost without her. One second, she's in her seat, feeling like finally— _finally_ —this is how they are. The push and pull is just right, and she wants to stretch tall and feel her body settle into all the proper lines, and the next, she's just . . . well, kissing him doesn't quite cover it. She's _on_ him.

His skin is warm and rough in just the right places, and she's furious to find that, up close, he smells _exactly_ as good as she remembers. _Better._ She tastes sweetness at the corner of his mouth and knows he's been sneaking Skittles from the top drawer.

"Beckett!"

Their lips separate with a pop, and he must have pulled away. She sure as hell didn't, but here they are. He's holding her at arm's length and she's half kneeling up in her seat, panting and far from pleased at this turn of events.

"Beckett!" he says again.

He's aghast. His voice is shocked and breathy and he sounds comically like his mother. She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry about that, so she dives in all over again. He kisses her back this time. He eases the weight of her body on to his and meets her mouth with every eager breath. It's an endless, dizzy fall, the two of them together.

"You liked it?"

Her eyes fly open at the sound of his voice. He's kissing her, still. Delicate presses of his lips against hers, over and over again, with low, eager words slipping in between them as his fingertips skim the shape of her face.

"Liked it?"

_His_ eyes fly open at that. Her strangled, _stupid_ voice, and the fact that she's echoing the dumbest possible thing all over again

"The dress." He holds her away from him, just for an instant, like he's waiting at one end of an artfully wild-looking lawn and he's just caught his first glimpse of her at the other. "And the flowers and . . . things." He pulls her close again, excitement spilling over from him to her. "But the dress . . . mostly that."

"The dress." It's not even words. He's kissing her, and there's no breath for anything else. Just her mouth moving in time with his for a moment that's not long enough before she's bolting upright. Before she's scrambling backward and not quite smacking her head on the roof of the cruiser. " _What?"_

She falls back into her seat. She looks down at herself. She looks over at him, but this is really happening. She's not in pajamas and he's not in yesterday's jeans. She isn't dreaming this any more than she dreamed those dozen minutes on her doorstep in the middle of the night. It's really happening.

"What?"

She says it again, and it's like he was waiting or it. Like he's flipped a switch, and this is a different kind of careful.

"You kissed me." He risks a smile. It's conspiratorial. Joyful again, and her heart stutters in the midst of the stubborn, confused, mess she is right now. She likes the look of it on him. _Joy._

She feels his thumb brush over her knuckles and realizes he's holding her hand. It's kind of minor in the grand scheme of things, but she's cross about it. A swing in the other direction, once she thinks to worry what he might see on her face. She snatches her fingers away.

He resists. Just a moment of tension, then he lets go with that same look she remembers from her hallway. Thoughtful, patient resolve, though there's a little more steel in it tonight.

He swipes at the corner of his own mouth and holds the smudge of color up to the light. Lipstick. From her lips. Because she _kissed_ him. And he kissed her, and now they're not kissing, and that makes the least sense of _anything._

"Not a yes, then?" It's playful, but a challenge, too.

"A yes?" She twists her fingers together. She makes a tight knot of them. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

He raises his eyes to the roof of the car. The breath that huffs out doesn't quite make it all the way to the laugh he seems to have intended. "Oh, a lot of things." He rolls his head to the side to look at her. "Maybe not as many as you think. Or not the ones you think."

That pulls a laugh from _her_. It's a little hysterical, and she feels like she might have stolen it. A charged, miserable silence falls, and she can't keep _doing_ this. _They_ can't. The certainty of it pulls words up out of her. Things she doesn't want to say, but someone has to, and he's insane, apparently.

"Castle, there are things that have been sitting in my fridge longer than I've known you. And you're at my door in the middle of the night and leaving me secret messages . . ."

"Not that secret."

"Can't you just . . ." She reaches down at her side and jerks the lever to let her seat fall back a little. She scrubs a hand over face and hooks an arm up and behind the headrest. She stares up at the roof of the car and finds no more answers than he seemed to. Her head falls to the side. She looks at him, pleading. "Can't you just . . . want to make out like a normal guy?"

He leans away from her long enough to fumble with his own seat. He lowers himself so they're level, then twists until he's mostly facing her. She swallows hard. They're too close. It's too much like being nose to nose across his pillows or hers. It's too much like the morning after for her fingers not to curl around the door handle. It's too much for her not to be looking for the exits, but there's a faint hint of challenge in his eyes, and she won't be the one to turn away.

Her waits for her shoulders to settle. He nods like he knows the whole moment. Everything going on in her head. He ticks things off on his fingers.

"First of all, about the fridge: Gross." She snorts. It's more of a laugh than it really deserves, but he's entirely pleased with it. He grins and everything inside her flutters. "Second, I _obviously_ want to make out." He rolls his eyes a little, but there's a giddy note he doesn't try to hide. Like everything inside him flutters, too, and the next words, when they come, are low and nowhere near steady. "I want . . . Kate, I _want_ you."

He leans over the console and kisses her, hands fisted at his sides like it takes everything in him to stop at that. Just a kiss. It drives her mad, that resolve. It calls up all the wicked and confused and _stubborn_ in her. She slides her fingers into his hair and rests a palm over the solid thump of his heart.

"Good," she breathes. She kisses him back softly, a different tack this time. "Good to know." She kisses him again, lingering.

"God, Beckett." His arms go stiff like he's holding on for dear life. "Please, _don't."_

"Don't what?" She keeps the words to a whisper against his cheek, though she'd like to shake him. She'd like to pin him to the seat and savage his mouth until he tells her why—why they're not just _doing_ this already, when she wants him and he wants her and it's no more complicated than that.

"Don't kiss me . . ." He's all tension, holding back and leaning in, all at once. One hand rebels. It breaks free and curls at the nape of her neck. A contradiction that's wildly satisfying. He kisses her hard, now, all the fight in her mirrored back. But it doesn't last. He breaks away again. His head falls against her shoulder. "Please don't kiss me like it's a yes, when it's not."

Her body curls back from his. Her stomach flutters and jumps, a muddle of pleasant and unpleasant things. She knocks her head against the cool glass of the driver's side window. She'd like to break something. She'd like to break _him._ The thought sours the breath in her mouth. "A yes to _what?"_

"You know . . . " It's another turn of the wheel. Gentle fingers just barely skim her shoulder, like he's thinking of bare skin beneath sheer lace. His voice is as patient, now, as hers is ragged. "You _know_ , Beckett . . ."

"Castle . . . "

". . . but I can ask again." He sweeps back the hair that's just now long enough to brush her neck back, and his lips land just behind her ear. "I can keep asking."

"Asking." He touches a kiss to some spot she didn't know existed. She's a sudden mass of want and frustration and _fear._ "I guess that's what you _do_." The words fly out of her, unkind and terrible. Airless and dead between them, and she doesn't need to twist around to picture the flash of hurt. She knows it well enough from her own doorstep.

"Castle. I'm . . ." She does twist around. She captures his hand and presses it between her own, but the apology won't come. It's terrible.

"Actually . . . " He's quiet about it. Somber, like she hasn't just lashed out. Like she deserves an explanation. Everything is shadows and gold in the streetlight, but she feels the heat climbing on his cheeks. "I don't." He raises his eyes to hers and gives her an unsettled kind of smile. "I haven't. Ever. I mean . . . until the other night."

"What?" She needs a twelve-step program for that particular word. For him or this or whatever. "How?"

"Meredith . . . neither one of us really thought about it until we found out about Alexis, and it was . . . The right thing. For then." He shrugs. "And with Gina, we just kind of . . . agreed to it." He's burning. He tries to pull his hand free, but she holds fast. He hangs his head. He's going for sheepish, but it's miserable. It's just miserable. "I'm not really selling this am I?"

"Castle, I don't even . . ." She's back flat against the seat staring at the persistently, annoyingly answer-free roof of the cruiser. The words come back to her. His absolutely _insane,_ middle-of-the-night words. "You want to get married"

"Yes."

He leaves it at that. She can practically feel every other thing he'd like to say rippling in the air between them, but he leaves it at that.

"But you don't want to sleep with me."

He jerks at her hands, pulling her around to face him. "Of _course_ Iwant to sleep with you! Jesus, Beckett. Is that . . . do you actually need to hear me _say_ that?" He kisses her. A sloppy, frustrated afterthought. "I _want_ you," he says fiercely. "I want to wake up with you. Over and over again. And . . ." His voice softens. He searches her face like he wishes he saw something else. Like he wishes he could convince himself that he did. "And I need to know that—for you— it's . . . at least a possibility." He kisses her again, tender and deliberate. A test. "I don't want you to run." He opens his fingers. Her hands hover in the space between them. "I don't want to chase you away."

"So you thought you'd propose."

It comes out harder than she means it. She's exhausted and stirred up and alarmed that everything he's said makes a strange kind of sense. It comes out flat and harder than she means it, but he laughs. He nuzzles her cheek. He breathes her in. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"And . . . now?" She doesn't look at him. She feels the weight of his gaze as he pulls back just a little and the eternal moment while he studies her.

"Better and better."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Finished. Thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Just smoothing out the ending of the second chapter. Up soon.


End file.
